The Tale of Lady Pentaghast and Lady Montilyet
by Grace Kay
Summary: Sometimes, a Lady can also be the Hero of the tales.


_A/N: I have become absolutely smitten with this pairing, and was feeling incredibly romantic and cuddly, so I wrote this. I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

* * *

Cassandra was not aware of her attraction at first. She had so little experience with physical attraction. She was a driven woman, sometimes with a singular focus on her duty. It did not leave a lot of room for romance.

There was Regalyan, of course, but their connection was one of friendship that was only occasionally more. They could not see each other often, and as such their relationship was more letters than anything. He was comfortable, safe, and he treated her vulnerabilities with respect. They only shared a bed a handful of times, when each of their need was greatest, and while it was always mutually fulfilling, it lacked the fiery passion Cassandra so longed for. It was the thing she sought in her guilty-pleasure reading, and it was the idea that lit the fire in her blood.

Cassandra Pentaghast had never expected a _woman_ to light that fire in her blood. And at first, Josephine did not. She was simply a well-educated woman who truly felt that the right words could change the world. She was fascinating to the Seeker, whose words so often failed her. Cassandra had such good ideas in her head, but they fell flat when she attempted to put them to words. Lady Montilyet could take an idea Cassandra shared in her stilted words and spin it into a masterpiece to rival Varric's best writings. The Seeker was constantly left in awe by the ability, and found every opportunity she could to speak with the ambassador.

At first it was for her words, but eventually it was simply so Cassandra could hear the woman's enchanting voice.

The passionate fire was not lit, however, until Cassandra found herself the hero. Not The Hero to everyone in Skyhold, but simply the hero to this one woman.

Cassandra did not know about Josephine's personal troubles with the House of Repose. Ever the professional, Josephine was handling it privately, had enlisted the Inquisitor's help as a personal favor, but was otherwise keeping the trouble to herself. So the day she was attacked in broad daylight was… surprising and upsetting by turns.

Cassandra was in the war room, studying the layout of their forces, unnecessary as she was not in charge of any forces, but meditative in its own right at times. And useful to know where their soldiers were concentrated at any given time. She heard a strange scraping sound through the open door, like a razor blade being sharpened on a strip of leather. Curious, she moved to look through the door.

A soldier dressed in the livery of the Inquisition was disappearing into Lady Montilyet's office. Cassandra could not place at first why the sight would be strange, until she realized that the sound she'd heard was the entirely familiar sound of a blade being drawn from a leather sheath. Heart dropping through her stomach, Cassandra realized that the image was odd because guards were only posted outside the ambassador's office, in the main hall, and _not_ in the hall leading to the war room. What was this man doing here, going into the ambassador's office from this direction?

Cassandra hurried out, feather-soft on her boots. She did not know what was going to happen, but walking into the ambassador's office was an innocent enough move for her to make, and if Lady Montilyet was in trouble, then Cassandra could potentially help her. Down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the office she went, her heart hammering faster and faster.

She rounded the corner to…

"Ambassador!"

To her credit, Lady Montilyet was not entirely without defense. She must have had ears like a hound, for as Cassandra watched, the ambassador threw herself from her chair just as the soldier struck. His fist hit the chair back, the thin stiletto he held snapping in half as he tried to yank it free. The blade stayed in the chair, quivering, the sharp end still embedded in the wood.

An angry huff. The would-be assassin threw the useless hilt of his weapon aside as he moved around the chair to the ambassador, still gathering herself from her place on the floor. Cassandra was already moving, pulling the dirk from the small of her back and ramming into the desk hard enough to send it straight into the assassin, stumbling him. Her hip would remind her of the move later, but at the moment, with so much adrenaline moving through her, Cassandra barely felt it.

Instead, she merely vaulted herself over the desk, sheafs of parchment flying in all directions as she pushed herself with both hands toward the ambassador's would-be killer. Her foot landed on the back of his knee and he crumpled. Three seconds later, her dirk was buried in his neck, a fountain of blood washing over her hands, splashing across the ambassador's dress.

The commotion brought the attention of those guards outside. "See to this traitor!" Cassandra shouted at them, unconcerned for herself. She was undamaged. She would be fine.

"Are you okay, Lady Montilyet?" she asked, getting the wild-eyed ambassador to focus solely on her.

"You… you saved me, Lady Pentaghast," Lady Montilyet whispered, and then she was in Cassandra's arms, shaking in fear and relief. She did not weep, but she didn't need to. Cassandra understood the various revelations going through her head. It was not an easy thing, to realize you were the intended target for an assassin's blade. She wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, eventually standing with her in her arms and taking her to her rooms, posting guards outside the door and sending for Leliana to ferret out what had happened.

It wasn't until later that evening, after all had been revealed of the House of Repose, that Cassandra found the wound on her leg as she stripped herself for a bath. It was shallow, barely a scratch in comparison to some of the wounds she had sustained during her life of fighting. But it would leave a scar nonetheless. Even years later Cassandra would stroke the thin line on her thigh and remember the night she saved her love, the night she first thought she might be in love with Josephine Montilyet.

* * *

It was only half a day before fate threw them together again. Cassandra decided to patrol the ramparts with the soldiers, as she couldn't sleep and she enjoyed the night sky. She was on edge from the attack on Lady Montilyet, feeling battered, the slice up her thigh bandaged and stinging. More than that, however, she could not get the feeling of the other woman out of her head, could not get the image of the lady's trusting face, the look of supreme relief as her eyes fell upon Cassandra's face.

It made the Seeker feel… she was not sure. But it did not escape her own notice that it was outside Lady Montilyet's room that she now stood, faced outward, looking up at the stars and contemplating the events of the day. She felt as though Josephine Montilyet were incredibly precious and needed to be protected. _No, that is not quite right. She is… precious __**to me**__. When did that happen? When did I get such a personal stake in this woman?_

Cassandra thought of many things up on those ramparts, not all of them appropriate for voicing aloud. She thought of Lady Montilyet's smile, the knowing glint in her eye when telling some jest or other, the way her hair fell just so to frame her face. The Seeker thought of the ambassador's dress that day, gold and blue and shining in the early morning sun. She thought of the shapely woman's curves in that dress, the swell of her hips and her rump, the line leading to the woman's bosom. She thought of that dress drenched in the blood of her assailant, and Cassandra's heart bloomed with a fierce protectiveness she had never quite experienced before. Like those heroes in her tales

_They will not touch her again_.

A muffled yelp sounded, and Cassandra was at Lady Montilyet's door in a heartbeat, sword drawn, foot kicking the door in. Wide eyes met hers in the firelight. Cassandra cast about, finding the room empty save for the two of them.

"I apologize, Lady Montilyet," Cassandra said, now feeling shame that she would force her way in like some common thug. "I will leave you alo-"

She was not allowed to finish, as the ambassador was suddenly pushing herself into Cassandra's arms. "Please, Lady Pentaghast, do not leave!" Lady Montilyet trembled violently. Cassandra wrapped her arms around the woman, keeping her sword safely out of the way.

"I am here," she said simply, leaning over the ambassador and speaking into her hair. The shorter woman smelled _divine_, like ink and leather and wood and parchment, and also faintly of rosewater, which she likely used to keep herself fresh between baths. "I take it you were not attacked?"

Lady Montilyet's head shook. "A nightmare only, but… it felt so real. I felt the heat of his blood. I could see the whites of his eyes… Oh, it was terrible!"

Cassandra found she was swaying without being aware of when she started. "A dream only. The assassin is dead. I will protect you." She had meant to say "I will ensure you are protected," meaning guards, vetting their soldiers, having Leliana assign agents to keep the ambassador safe until this ugly business was taken care of. But as the words came out of her mouth, Cassandra knew they were true. This feeling… she would take charge of Lady Montilyet's protection herself. Her heart would not allow another to do it.

Hazel eyes, almost amber in the low light, found hers. The ambassador's violent trembling had abated, and when she spoke, her voice was steady, low, husky. It sent a shiver down Cassandra's spine. "I find you are my hero, Lady Pentaghast. You are vanquisher of assassins and nightmares alike."

And thus began their nightly routine. Cassandra would station herself outside Josephine's door. Sometime in the night, she would move herself inside and read by the firelight, usually after Josephine awoke from a nightmare, whether of the assassination attempt or the disaster at Haven or the explosion at the Conclave… they had experienced plenty of fodder for nightmares. Eventually, Cassandra stopped stationing herself at the door, and simply would bid Josephine goodnight in her own room and take up her nightly ritual of reading one of her guilty pleasure novels while sitting at the small writing table in the corner.

Oft-times the Seeker found herself simply gazing upon Lady Montilyet's lovely face without even realizing it. She always went back to reading once she _did_ realize it, but more often than not it was merely the backdrop for her thinking. Josephine was beautiful, even in sleep. It was a lovely backdrop for the Seeker's brooding mind.

One night Cassandra started awake at a hand on her shoulder.

She had been dreaming of Josephine Montilyet in her arms. She was not sure what she would do with her, but merely having the woman in her arms, her warmth and her litheness and her quick wit and sharp mind… Cassandra found she was more than a little aroused after the dream.

But the thing that had awakened her…

"When do you sleep, if you keep watch over me, Seeker?"

Josephine was standing next to her, hot, dry palm now caressing the warrior's cheek. The image struck Cassandra as a classic one, of the small woman holding the large warrior tenderly. The Seeker had never considered herself in the role of the warrior, but now that she dreamt of Josephine and watched over her while she slept… Cassandra could not figure out why she had never seen it before. She had been a warrior her entire adult life. Why not the role of the warrior in romance, as well?

Now, looking up from her spot at the table, where she had dozed off, Cassandra was filled with such notions of love, of romance, of courtship. She could not shake the feelings her dreams had given her, and without much more thought on the matter – indeed, if she had stopped to think she would never have dreamed of such action – the Seeker surged upward, capturing Josephine's lips with her own.

She did not stop to think of what might happen if Lady Montilyet did not feel similarly. She did not stop to consider that she did not know what to do with a woman. She did not stop to think on how incredibly inappropriate it was to kiss a woman in her sleeping gown in her own rooms. She did not stop until she felt arms wrap around her midsection, pulling her closer than anyone had pulled her before.

"I- I am sorry," Cassandra said, pulling away and staring down into those impossibly large, hazel eyes. "I shouldn't take advantage. I-"

A finger over her lips. "Shush, Lady Seeker," Josephine whispered. "And kiss me again. Please."

Any hope of self-restraint left Cassandra at those words. She leaned down once more, covering Josephine's lips with her own, and her heart soared up into the heavens.

They shared a bed that night, finding sleep only as the sky began to lighten with the dawn. And they shared a bed each subsequent night, learning, exploring, and always lying together after, speaking and stroking and holding each other with so much tenderness. Cassandra found that Josephine's soft skin and skillful words enveloped her in feelings of home, in feelings of safety, even as she was filled with the need to protect this smaller woman. Josephine's lips were her haven, the ambassador's bosom her safe harbor, and the juncture between her thighs Cassandra's most favored flavors of home.

They kept their trysts to themselves, afraid of spoiling it by letting the horrid gossips that filled Skyhold take hold of their affair. Let them gossip of the Inquisitor, of Iron Bull's sordid sexual conquests, of Sera and her mischief, of Ser Blackwall's mysterious past before the Grey Wardens. Let this space here, cradled between Josephine Montilyet and Cassandra Pentaghast, be their own, and let no one spoil it with their incessant need to talk about things which did not concern them.

The words of love were not spoken until Cassandra left for Adamant. They lay together, the Antivan's room blessedly warm and dry after their lovemaking, sweat cooling on their skin from their earlier exertions. Josephine, head pooled on Cassandra's belly, traced the line of the scar from the day the assassin came for her. The issue had since been resolved, but still the guards knew that Lady Pentaghast kept guard over their ambassador. If they suspected their Right Hand and the ambassador were lovers, they kept it to themselves.

"I do not wish you to leave," Josephine said, fingers traveling upward, making Cassandra gasp.

Catching the woman's wrist, Cassandra pulled her up so that she might look into those cherished, beautiful eyes. "I do not wish to leave you. But I must. I still have my duty."

Josephine sighed. "I know. And I have my duty here. But… I have become accustomed to having you in my bed each night."

Cassandra smirked. "Indeed. Is that all you will miss?"

The ambassador grinned even as her cheeks bloomed a dark red. "I will miss your body, yes. But even more I will miss your beautiful, beautiful words."

Cassandra scoffed. "My words are not beautiful. They are stilted and they fall flat of my vision. _You_ are the one with the… what does Sera call the Inquisitor? Honey-tongue. You are the one with the honeyed words, Josephine."

"Mmmmm I do love hearing my name fall from your lips. But no. Your words may not be flowery. But they are dear to me, and I shall miss them. I shall miss your voice carrying me off to sleep. I shall miss your strength holding me through the night. And most of all, my dear Cassandra, I shall miss your silent, stoic presence at my side. Sometimes it is the words that are silently spoken that mean the most. Please know that I love you and I will be awaiting your return."

They made love once more, Cassandra's heart swelling with Josephine's words. She declared her love more than once, and she rode off in the crisp autumn morning carrying a strip of gold cloth tied around her arm – a lady's favor, like the knights of old. The strip stayed with her through Orlais, through the battle at Adamant, through the Fade and the ride back to Skyhold. It was tattered now, faded, subject to the whims of weather and fighting and time and sunlight. But still it was there, tied around her armor, a flash of gold reminding Cassandra at every turn what she was fighting for and who she had awaiting her return.

* * *

Now Cassandra stands at Josephine's door once more. Why did she think this was a good idea? She should have waited with the others several hours' ride away, but she simply… couldn't. She was compelled here, to this place, despite the late hour and the chill in the air. It started snowing heavily some hours ago, and she is now chilled through and through. Her fingers are numb despite the leather gloves and gauntlets, and she lost the feeling in her toes on the horse. Why did she not grab a heavier cloak before she left the camp?

It was so she could be here, in this place, sooner. So why does she now hesitate?

"I do not wish to wake her," she says aloud, softly, the air clouding with her breath. _That is a lie, Cassandra. You are afraid. You are afraid things have changed. It was so beautiful and perfect, and now you fear that time and distance will have distorted what was._ Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Cassandra turns the knob, pushing the door open as quietly as she can.

All hope of quiet leaves her as the door is yanked from her numb fingers, the wind catching it and howling into the room. She hurriedly finds the door again, hauling it closed. It shuts with a satisfying click, but the damage is done.

"Is that you, Cassandra?"

The rich, melodious Antivan accent fills the room, and Cassandra almost melts to hear it. "I was hoping not to wake you," she says, sighing heavily. She is weary down to her bones. She really should have just stayed at the camp with the Inquisitor and the others. But…

"Let me guess. The others are camped several hours away yet?" Josephine's voice is closer. She is no longer in the bed.

"Yes," Cassandra confirms, turning from the door to see Josephine approaching her. The room is warm from a roaring fire – Josephine is from a hot place and prefers to keep her room almost boiling compared to the people from Ferelden - and the vision the light reveals nearly makes Cassandra's knees buckle. Josephine is wearing very little, merely a thin linen sleeping shift that leaves her arms and most of her legs bare.

The shorter woman is on her in moments, and Cassandra is relieved of the weight of her cloak. A shiver suns down her spine, and snowflakes fall around her, shaken loose from her hair. She feels as though the cold has seeped into her bones, and yet a small fire burns in her center to be so near the one she loves.

Josephine is fussing. Nothing has changed. Cassandra can feel the tension fall from her shoulders, can feel her own relief like the sweetness of a favored, familiar meal. All is as it should be, and soon, oh so soon, she will be in her haven, will lie next to her Josephine and all will be right once more.

"This was particularly stupid of you, Lady Pentaghast," the ambassador says, invoking Cassandra's family name as she does when she is being short with the Seeker. The gauntlets are peeled off. Cassandra's fingers are stiff; she cannot actually feel Josephine's skin, even when she tries to cup the woman's cheek. "Your fingers are freezing! And I'm sure your toes fare worse. You could have frostbite, and yet you rode for hours by yourself in the beginnings of a blizzard!"

"Josephine…" All she wants is those arms, that skin, those lips.

"And your lips are so chapped they're bleeding-"

"Josephine." Cassandra turns, reaching for Josephine's shoulders to try to keep her still.

"Honestly, you've been gone so long, and you when you return you wake me up to you catching your death of cold-"

Whatever else she plans to say is lost as Cassandra finally gets her stiff, numb fingers to take hold of the woman's shift and pull her close. Their lips press together, and even though Josephine is right and Cassandra's lips have split in several places, the Seeker does not care. She has longed for this closeness for _months_. She has been through the Fade – _physically_! She has faced down an archdemon and acquired new scars and pulled her comrades, broken and bleeding, to safety, all so she could be _here_, in this place, with this person. There were other reasons, as well – duty, faith, the fact that it _needed_ to be done – but always this has been there, like a beacon of light, of hope. It is a reason that is hers alone, and that makes it all the sweeter to now have it in her arms.

They part panting. "Lady Montilyet, please spare me the lecture. I know it was stupid. But…" She exhales shakily, wrapping her arms around the ambassador's waist. "I had to feel you. I could wait no longer. It has been more than two months since we departed for Adamant fortress. Letters only count for so much."

"I…" Josephine's arms snake up around the Seeker's shoulders. "Yes, my Lady Seeker. I suppose it would be more helpful if I merely helped to warm you back up?"

Cassandra smiles, nuzzling into Josie's neck. It is boiling hot on her frigid nose, but she is surrounded in that blessed _scent_ and she cannot seem to make herself stop. "That might be the best idea you've ever had."

Hot hands are on her face, and then they are kissing once more, slow steps taking them closer to the bed. But Josephine pulls back, shaking her head. "No, Cassandra. You are wet and cold. We should have you by the fire, dry you off as well as warm you up."

"My dear Josephine," she says, half whisper, half purr. "Is not the best way to warm someone suffering from hypothermia to lie naked with them, wrapped in as many blankets as you can?"

The ambassador quivers at Cassandra's tone, and likely at the image her words have conjured, but still she persists in lecturing the Seeker just a little bit more. "Likening your condition to hypothermia does _not_ make me more likely to bed you, Lady Pentaghast."

Cassandra leans over, kissing Josephine's neck, nibbling her way up to the woman's ear, delighting in the gasp that falls from the ambassador's lips at the sensations. Her arms are around the smaller woman's waist in a vice-grip, and she has no intention of letting Josephine go until she is removing her clothing, scant as they are.

"Perhaps- oh… Perhaps a compromise?" Josephine whispers, incapable of more vocal sound due to Cassandra's onslaught on such delicate skin.

Cassandra pulls back, raising a brow. "Ever the diplomat? Alright, I will hear your terms, Lady Montilyet."

Josephine smiles, holding only warmth and love for the Seeker, making it very difficult for Cassandra not to dip down once more and capture those lips, swallow the sighs she knows will rise into the air around them. "Unfortunately, it requires the use of my arms." Cassandra merely blinks. Josephine sighs, rolling her eyes a little. "I cannot use them if you do not let me go, Seeker. Momentarily, I _promise_."

Cassandra is reluctant, dubious, but she releases her hold on the curvy, smaller woman. Josephine pushes herself up on tiptoes to bestow a kiss to the Seeker's cheek before pushing herself away. All that skin leaves Cassandra's side, making the Right Hand of the Divine painfully aware once more of just how chilled she still is. The feeling in her toes is starting to return, but that just makes it painful, in addition to the shivering she now cannot stop. It is somewhat off-set by the _sight_ of all that skin moving in the firelight, however.

Josephine is dragging a heavy woolen blanket, throwing it down over the rug before the fire. She then walks past Cassandra, giving the Seeker a look that cuts straight through her frozen exterior to her core. It promises all manner of wicked things not fit for polite conversation.

The ambassador returns with the heavy comforter from atop her bed, spreading it out over the woolen blanket, making herself and Cassandra a large area on which to spread out. The very thought sends a shiver down the Seeker's spine, her core giving a sympathetic pulse as Josephine turns. The ambassador's eyes smolder in the firelight, and she holds her arms out in invitation.

"Come let me warm you, my beautiful warrior."

Maker preserve her, Cassandra would need to be struck down to keep from those wonderful, loving arms. She is on Josephine in seconds, their clothing coming away and replaced by the heavy comforter. Cassandra is warm and dry and safe, and can finally, _finally_, protect her love once more, holding her and bringing her to _such_ heights of ecstasy in the small confines of that room of stone and mortar. It is their sanctuary, their haven, housing the glow of their love, the light of their affection. Nothing can take these moments away from them.

Corypheus may _try_, but in this tale – the tale of these two women in love – he would have to go through Cassandra Pentaghast. And Cassandra Pentaghast played the stalwart hero well. The only thing that could make her move, make her melt, chip at her foundation… was the tender, warm, loving woman currently in her arms.


End file.
